Island of Deceit (7 page)

 

Every time Harper passed Barbara's place there were several cars in the lot. This time there were just two. He took a chance at stopping by.

Two heads were under the dryer and Barbara came to the door that led into a storage and kitchen combination area when the doorbell chimed.

“Afternoon, Sheriff.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Are you eating on the job, Barbara?”

“Trying to squeeze lunch in.”

“A little late for lunch, isn't it? What're you having?”

“Just some fried chicken.”

“I haven't had lunch either. And that chicken sure does smell good.”

“Do you want a leg? I can share the macaroni salad, too.”

Harper nearly swallowed his tongue. He'd love to have a feel of Barbara's leg. “You got enough to share?”

Barbara nodded and put a chicken leg on a paper plate along with a dish of the macaroni. “Here you go.”

“My hands are dirty.” He shoved both hands into his pockets.

“The bathrooms…”

“You can feed me. I trust your hands.” He took a bite out of the chicken leg she was holding. She had already eaten half of it.

Speechless, Barbara glared at him while he chewed. Incredible.

Harper shook his head. “That's the best fried chicken I've had in years. Woman, you can cook. And I love good food.” Harper smacked his lips. “You sure you aren't from the South?”

“I'm sure.” He actually stood there waiting for her to feed him. Barbara shook her head, and dished a forkful of macaroni to him.

While he chewed, Barbara peeked out of the room to take a look at her customers. Racine Hammerfield's mother had actually taken the dryer up, her ears cocked and listening. Racine was frowning in the next seat.

“Please lower the dryer hood so your hair can dry,” Barbara said. She had customers lined up and she couldn't afford to waste one minute.

Reluctantly, the woman lowered the hood, but both her eyes and her daughter's were glued to Barbara. Ignoring them, Barbara went back into the kitchen, where Harper had eaten his share of the macaroni and was gazing at hers. He'd attacked that chicken leg with his fork.

“Um, um, um, um.” Moving a step closer, he invaded her space and she inhaled his woodsy soap scent a second before he slipped a kiss to her cheek. “I don't know. Hard to distinguish which is better, the chicken or you. But I'm betting on you.”

Barbara couldn't help but laugh. “You are crazy, absolutely mad.”

“Out of my mind for you, baby.” His mouth covered hers hungrily and the unexpectedness of it rendered her motionless. He was caressing her mouth more than kissing it, sweeping her in and storming her senses as he teased her. As his overwhelming presence filled her with need and desire—that over the course of time he'd slowly awakened—she responded with abandon that would later surprise her.

Much too soon, he moved back. He swiped a hand across his face, then tilted her chin with his hand, stroking it while she longed for him to kiss her again. “Definitely you.”

“What?” Barbara was completely confused. The knowing smile playing at his lips and in his eyes made her want to hit him when her brain cleared enough to realize what he was referring to.

“Don't go mean on me now.”

She shifted her gaze and realized her right hand was pressed against his chest. His shirt hung close to his washboard stomach. Suddenly, his presence seemed to soak up all the air and space in the room. What in the world did he want with her?

“Breakfast at the B and B Friday morning?” he asked. “Pick you up at seven-thirty,” Harper said, backing away and not giving her an opportunity to refuse. He'd make it to work by nine. He nodded to the ladies under the dryer and held the door for Lisa Claxton, who was arriving.

“The sheriff getting a haircut here now?” Lisa asked. “Lord it's been quite a day.”

“He's taking Barbara out for breakfast Friday,” Racine's mother said.

Racine looked at Barbara askance. “He's dating you now?”

“Go on, girl,” Lisa said, smiling. “The sheriff's quite a catch. He's a nice man, too.”

“What's he doing dating you?” Racine asked, looking Barbara up and down as if she was the last woman to catch a man's eye.

Barbara didn't dignify her question with a response.

But Lisa wasn't known for tact or holding her tongue. “What's wrong with him dating Barbara? You think you're the only one who can catch a man? Please.” Lisa sank into the chair Barbara gestured to.

Barbara ran her hands through Lisa's hair, feeling an inch of natural root. “You need a touch-up,” she said. “Your hair's breaking off because you're waiting too long between touch-ups,” she scolded, ending the debate about her dating life.

It was nobody's business. Besides, she wasn't dating Harper, though she couldn't help the dip in her stomach when she thought about that kiss and his very nearness. But from what she'd heard, he'd never been married—and must be set in his ways. He'd be hell to live with.

Of course, feeling that time was passing at lightning speed and she was standing still, out of desperation, she'd married at twenty-nine. It lasted only a year. Good thing her fiancé had insisted on a prenup. Her career had taken off and so had his, but he didn't know how far ahead of him she'd progressed and was the one to insist upon one. Which had been a good thing for her. Her salary and commission was double his. So when the marriage was over, he came out of it only with what he brought in.

There was nothing about that marriage that made her want to repeat the process. The dates she'd had afterward were even more disastrous. Unwilling to put up with the crap men put her through, she spent her spare time building her career. And by the time she'd hit forty-three, she'd saved enough money to retire. Her grandmother wanted to return to her beloved Paradise Island. She'd left there years ago when she'd married the “love of her life.”

Barbara shook her head. She wouldn't deny she was very attracted to Harper and would actually like to date him, but she was too old to believe in that nonsense of ever finding the “love of her life.”

She guessed men would think that
she
was too difficult to live with at this point. But men often wanted women to change to suit them, not the other way around.

Barbara had mixed feelings about the breakfast, but Harper had been coming on strong for a while. It wouldn't hurt to spend one morning with him just to test the water.

 

Harper had brought the State into the investigation to make it easier to move among jurisdictions. As soon as they'd found the body, Harper had contacted the DMV for Sarah Rhodes's address.

They'd gotten a warrant to check her apartment in Norfolk, and he met the officer from the state police there after his brief lunch with Barbara.

The apartment had a closed-in smell, but it was neat and the inexpensive furniture was fairly new. Located in an upscale area, Harper wondered how she could afford the two-bedroom apartment on a companion's salary.

The policeman and he covered their shoes with bootees and tugged on gloves before they crossed the threshold.

“Nice digs,” the younger man said. “Wish I could afford a pad like this.”

Harper frowned. It reminded him of a hotel room rather than a home.

The living room was small but freshly painted, and with the new furniture, carefully placed knickknacks and magazines on the tables, it resembled a showroom. The kitchen was tucked into a corner to the left as they entered. All the appliances were new, although dust covered the surfaces. No dishes were in the sink, but a few were scrubbed of food and stacked in the dishwasher.

Harper hit the button for the answering machine. It was full of messages. He jotted down names and numbers as he listened. He played back the last number she dialed. It was to an islander. Robert Freelander.

The younger officer opened the fridge. It stank from month-old milk and meats. He quickly shut the door.

Her bedroom was just as neat as the rest of the apartment. Even the closet, filled with bargain finds, was neat, everything stacked up in precise piles or perfectly hung. Did people really live like that? Harper wondered, thinking of his trousers and shirt lying across the chair in his bedroom.

Did she have a compulsive disorder? Who was this mysterious Sarah Rhodes?

“Sarah, are you back?”

Harper opened the door to a white woman with light brown hair. She had a deep tan, as if she'd just come from a Bahamas vacation. “May I help you?” Harper asked.

“I thought I heard movement in Sarah's apartment. Is she here?” she asked, trying to glance around Harper.

Harper extended a hand. “Sheriff Harper Porterfield,” he said. “And you are?”

“Kristin Howard.”

“Did you know Sarah well?”

“Nobody knew her well, but I knew her better than most. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I'm sorry, but Sarah's dead.”

Kristin dropped her packages and Harper steadied her. “How? What happened?”

“Could you give me a few minutes? I'd like to ask you a few questions when we finish in here.”

She pointed to a door across the hall. “Just come on over. I'll be there.”

Harper bent to retrieve her packages. With trembling hands, Kristin took them from him and staggered across the hall.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

She gave a jerky nod and twisted the key in the lock.

Back in the apartment, Harper thumbed through a thin photo album and perused the few pictures there. A few group pictures. One of Sarah at each age. Just a scant few more.

A couple of pictures were on the dresser tops. But there was nothing to tell him who Sarah Rhodes really was. He took her small address book, added the most recent photo of her, and went to talk to Kristin.

Kristin dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“What happened to Sarah?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, she was found in the marsh on Paradise Island.”

“That's where she worked. She'd talked about visiting friends in Atlanta. I thought maybe she went there when I didn't see her for a couple weeks and then I left for a vacation. I'm just returning from Costa Rica.”

“How long has she lived here?”

“Almost a year. She grew up in foster care, moving from home to home.”

Her lips quivered. “She was so proud of this apartment. She invited me over to tea sometimes. Her place was the cleanest place I've ever been in. She was just so thrilled to have her own place, and she took very good care of it.”

Kristin's place, while not unkempt, looked more lived-in. Wasn't quite so…perfect.

“Did she mention friends on Paradise Island or here?” Harper asked.

“She had more friends on the island than here. She often returned late from work. Never hung out too much. Her employer was more a grandfather figure to her. That meant a lot. Especially for someone without family. I think he helped her with the rent,” she said. “What's being done about her burial?”

“We're trying to locate family.”

“If you can't, please let me know. I'll see to it.” She handed Harper a business card.

“If you think of anything, please call me,” Harper said, extending his own business card to her.

As Harper returned to Sarah's sterile home, he couldn't help comparing his life with Sarah's. One who lived on the outside looking in. He felt a kinship. He had friends, he had family who lived far away. But his work was his life. And for some reason, lately he'd begun to feel hollow inside.

He didn't want to be one of those lost souls without a purpose when he retired, without someone to share life with, to brighten the days.

And then there was Barbara. He smiled. Already she had begun to fill the emptiness.

 

Trent arrived at Barbara's place and asked if it was okay to begin the evening's cleaning. Barbara was glad to comply. She pointed out the location of the cleaning supplies while she finished up her last customer. Ten minutes later, the customer left.

The man was punctual and didn't need to be directed. Two points in his favor.

“You can do the manicure and pedicure, but I don't feel like curling my hair tonight.”

“I can do it all,” Trent said. “I don't have a beautician's license, but I do my mother's all the time. I can blow-dry your hair and curl it in the style you have now.”

“You sure?” She would like to have a new hairdo for her date with Harper—correction, breakfast. This wasn't a traditional date.

“Yes, ma'am…I mean Barbara.”

Barbara showed him where she stored the shampoo, conditioners, and hair coloring, and told him about the supplies and general information about the shop.

Barbara closed her eyes after she was settled over the shampoo bowl. Warm water showered through her hair. He squirted shampoo on his hand and rubbed it on her hair. Barbara stifled a moan. As his strong fingers massaged her scalp, she thought she'd died and gone to heaven. The women were going to love this.

With a shampoo person like Trent, she could do more heads. It would seem curious if she continued to turn customers down.

He blow-dried and curled her hair like a professional.

At the manicure station, Barbara's mind wandered back to Vicky Michaels, who had worked there until she died. The station had not been used since her death over Labor Day weekend. Loss and nostalgia hit Barbara, but Trent began to talk until she calmed down. In no time, he'd painted her nails and she was sitting back in the pedicure chair with her feet soaking.

They talked about some of the places he'd worked as he ministered to her feet.

And then he was massaging her feet and lower legs. Have mercy. He had magical hands. Barbara closed her eyes to enjoy.

“What the hell!”

Barbara jumped. Her eyes snapped open and her feet fell into the foot tub with a splash.